Chapter One
In which Alexsey is unreasonably charming.
Three months ago, The Boston Art Museum…
Alexsey…
"Why are we here again?" Roman sighs, gulping down half his glass of vodka.
"I was planning to bribe the director for a private tour of the new Van Gogh exhibit," I say, running a finger around the neck of my dress shirt.
The damn things are always so stiff. "The fundraiser tonight is just shit timing.
On the bright side, this is a good way to show interest in the Canton Syndicate.
Hannah, Morgan's widow, is on the board here. "
"This deal better be worth an extra fucking night to schmooze here in Boston," Roman says sourly. He's grumpy because I know he'd rather be back home, mauling his wife like the fate of the free world depends on it. Violet might thank me for giving her a night off from my rapacious brother.
A swell of music comes from a corner of the grand entry hall of Boston's Museum of Fine Arts. It's all soaring ceilings with Greek columns and granite floors that carry the sound of a piano to us. My eyes close for a moment.
Consolation No. 3, the piece that I’d listened to on repeat when I painted Snowfall, a pale and bleak view of the Kovalesky Forest in winter. My finger strokes over the chilly glass as I listen, remembering each brushstroke and the pleasure of creating something so beautiful.
And here it is, so perfectly played.
My eyes open and I head for the black grand piano at the center of the museum's towering entrance hall.
The girl who is playing, graceful hands traveling lovingly over the keys, is young, mid-twenties, with black hair color of the midnight sky rippling down her back.
Her lithe body sways slightly, as if every part of her embraces the music.
When she finishes, there's a huge round of applause.
She rises from the piano seat, nodding gracefully at the crowd as the host gives her a microphone.
"Thank you for joining us tonight and lending your generosity to such an important resource," she says.
Her voice is musical too, smooth and clear.
"The power of music is what keeps us human.
It's what makes us who we are, at our deepest, most profound self.
I know you will support the museum's expansion, for the Boston Music and Art Foundation.
For that, I sincerely thank you." Another round of applause.
Checking out her left hand as she accepts a glass of champagne, I grin and finish my drink
No wedding ring.
It takes ten strides to get close to her. "Congratulations," I say, cutting off a couple that's speaking to her. "Your gift is phenomenal."
When she turns, I'm struck with the full force of her eyes, a pale, almost silvery gray. The color of the sky before it storms. Now, though, they are frosted over.
"Thank you," she says graciously. "But as you can see, I'm speaking to someone right now." She turns back to the couple, asking the woman about her daughter's graduation with sincere interest.
"Ouch," Roman murmurs, he's followed me over. "You've never been shot down that fast before. Three point two seconds, I believe."
"Just part of the negotiation, asshole." I back up a step, looking like I'm being courteous and giving her room but really, angling so I can drive my heel down hard on Roman's toes. "I'm closing this deal."
I take another glass of vodka offered by the waiter who's been following Roman and me like a lost duckling after I tipped him a thousand dollars.
The girl continues her conversation with the couple.
They're shifting glances uncomfortably between me and her now.
Admittedly, I might be looming, my impatience making me lean in a bit more than I usually do.
Finally, they wrap up the conversation with hasty goodbyes and step away as the girl finally turns to me.
"Do you know who that was?" she says acidly.
"I don't," I admit.
"That's State Senator Mason Blackburn and his wife Maria." Her spectacular eyes narrow. "They're two of our biggest donors tonight. He's on the board of the Arts Foundation for the city of Boston. So, thanks for… whatever that sinister looming thing was that you managed."
I'm liking her more by the minute, "Yeah, it felt like looming to me, too," I admit. "I get impatient." Her glass is empty and I nod at it. "Allow me to make it up to you by getting you another drink."
"This is not a drinking night. This is a 'trying to get a ton of donations night'.
" she says sharply before sweetening it with a smile.
"But you're always welcome to make a donation.
" She walks away, and I get to admire the long line of her back, bare under the backless gown, as she tosses her hair.
She's tall. I love tall girls, curving over the small ones in bed throws my back out after a while.
Perfect, tiny waist shaping into round hips…
"Yeah, she's going to be mine tonight," I say, eyes still on her retreating form.
Roman fails to hide his laughter. At least the bastard keeps it down.
"Really?" he says, "Because from here it looks like she just kicked your ass to the back of the line."
"Fuck off, Roman," I say, keeping that pleasant smile on my face. "You're bad luck."
The bastard is still laughing. "I have to call Violet anyway."
"Emil," I turn to my bodyguard, "find out who the host is of the event." He's off in a moment, sliding silently through the crowd like a well-dressed wraith. Within minutes, he reports back with the name and a picture, showing me discreetly on his phone.
"Eleanor Sterling," he murmurs. "She's the gray-haired woman in the sparkly purple gown." He nods to a corner, where a woman is holding court with several admirers. The light gleaming off her diamond necklace and earrings is blinding.
Putting in my hands in my pockets. I fasten a bland smile on my face and amble toward her.
Half an hour later, I can see that my girl's smile is getting a little frayed around the edges, she's already tired.
A performance that powerful and then a night of charming the rich and entitled would take it out of anyone.
It's then that Eleanor stands up, heading for the stage and discreetly clearing her throat.
She's got the crowd trained, everyone's attention snaps to her.
"Thank you again for attending tonight," she says with a queenly smile.
"Before we conclude the evening, I must thank a new sponsor of the museum for a wonderfully generous donation.
A round of applause, please, for Mr. Beauford Wellington!
" Eleanor beams at me and the crowd turns with interest
"Beauford?" That asshole Roman is back and nearly purple from holding in his laughter. "Tvoyu zh mat, holy fuck, that's the best you could come up with? It sounds like you're a thirteen-year-old girl writing a Regency romance."
"It's still not as terrible as your wife's undercover name," I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. "What was it? Oh, yeah, Madeline Beauregard."
Roman nods. "Fair enough."
Eleanor continues, "Mr. Wellington donated twenty-five million dollars tonight!"
"Yeah, that's coming out of your share of this arms deal," Roman mutters.
"This donation guarantees the opening of the new music and arts program," Eleanor continues, just barely holding back her gloating. "It also means we will not need to dip into the museum's endowment fund this year."
The applause is deafening, though I suspect the ones clapping the loudest are relieved that they don't have to cough up a bigger donation tonight.
As the crowd dissipates, I head back to my girl. She's speaking with an older, well-dressed man whose bulk and scarred face shouts 'bodyguard'. So, her family is very rich.
"Mr. Wellington, thank you for your generous donation," she says, looking me over. At last, I have the full force of her attention, and it's intense.
"I didn't want you to think I was a typical sleaze, coming onto you because you're beautiful," I admit. "I am a well-intentioned sleaze."
She bursts into laughter and she transforms, her eyes bright, and those thick, luscious lips spread wide. She's infectious, making you want to laugh with her, that whatever she thinks is funny must be.
“Mr. Wellington, you have definitely moved yourself out of sleaze status." She considers me for a moment, tapping her fingers against her glass. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Leaning closer, I feel the soft brush of her hair against my cheek. "Isn't this an open bar?" I whisper.
"Precisely," she whispers back. "I'm terribly cheap." That startles a laugh out of me and she winks.
After another hour, the crowd is thinning out, and the servers are eyeing the guests and the exit meaningfully. My girl is in the middle of telling me about the new wing of the museum. "The Van Gogh traveling exhibition," I nod. "I was hoping to see it tonight."
"Would you like a private tour?" she says in a conspiratorial whisper. "I happen to know the night security guards who will let us in."
I bow slightly. "A private tour with the most beautiful patroness of the arts in Boston? Of course."
Her bodyguard trails us discreetly to the entrance of the darkened wing of the museum.
He's got a head full of gray hair, but he doesn't look older than fifty or so.
Apparently, the stress of following this girl around has aged him prematurely.
He watches me step over the velvet rope blocking off the area with a suspicious frown
"Hey Roan, I'm going to take Beauford on a tour. Will you watch the entrance for us?"
He gives her an unwilling nod. His sharp eyes have already scanned the exhibit area for any threats, other than me, and couldn't find any. Gloomily, he watches me put her hand on my arm as I escort her into the shadowy hall.
"So, this one," she points animatedly at a painting, The Night Café, is said to be inspired by the Café de la Gare, where he'd go to hold a cup of tea and watch what he called 'the terrible madness of humanity’.”
I study her expression as she talks, the passion, the genuine excitement in her tone.
I know this painting, I saw it first when it was on loan to the Louvre in Paris, I'd just taken up a paintbrush of my own.
I remember that even with all the inbred arrogance of the Morozovs, I stood humbled, staring at it for an hour.
We trail down the darkened gallery, and I listen to her spiel. All of this, of course, I already know, but she delivers it with such passion. At the end of the hall, she turns to face me.
"This painting," she says, fingers twisted together, "is his most heartbreaking and beautiful, I think." We look at The Starry Night in silence, my eyes following the curves of the brilliant yellow line over the blue and black hills.
"He painted it from the night sky, sitting at his window in the asylum. I would love to know what he was thinking," she finishes, looking at the painting with a wishful smile.
"He said," I murmur, "'I don't know anything with certainty, but seeing the stars makes me dream'."
I'm standing right behind her now, and when she sighs deeply, I step forward as her back touches my chest. She stays there, resting against me.
The scent of her and the silk of her hair sliding across my neck would make me rock hard, but I've already been trying to hide my erection for the last fifteen minutes.
The fact that she's beautiful and passionate about art?
I may never get this erection to go down.
I slide my arm around her waist and hold her there, and to my satisfaction, she doesn't move.
"You already know all about Van Gogh, don't you?" she says, flushing a little.
"I do," I admit. "But I vastly prefer your stories."
Relaxing against me again, she sighs. "I love that quote."
I lower my head, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Can I ask you something?" I murmur.
"That seems fair," she agrees.
Brushing my nose across her cheek bone, I whisper, "What's your name?"
She bursts into one of her infectious laughs again, shoulders shaking against my chest. Turning in the circle of my arm, she looks up at me, resting her hand against my jacket. "Liria. Liria Johnson."
"A perfect name for a musician," I say, running my thumb along her cheekbone. "May I kiss you, Liria Johnson?" She takes a deep breath and presses her breasts against my chest and I groan silently. My cock is threatening to rip through my tuxedo trousers, and he's taken all the blood from my brain.
Liria barely whispers, "Yes."
My hands cup her cheeks as I kiss her slowly, thoroughly. The hall is silent, just our soft exchange of breath and I kiss her again and again, sliding my tongue between her lips and toying with hers before I fasten my teeth to her lower lip and pull it gently.
"Liria."
"Yes?" she says, blinking up at me, a bit dazed.
"I'd very much like it if you would come back to my place with me." I'm shocked that my voice is hoarse with need. Fucking Roman was right, I am not slick at all tonight.
She absently smooths her hand down my jacket, her eyes searching mine. "Yes, I would love that," she says, tilting her head mischievously towards a draped corner I'd not noticed. "There happens to be an exit door right behind that drape. It will take us out to the north end of the museum."
"I appreciate your stealth and cunning," I say approvingly. She laughs softly as I take her hand, pulling her to the door.